


eyes closed and clean

by Arianne, patrexes



Series: Kinktober 2019 [22]
Category: Final Fantasy XIV
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Blood and Injury, Canon Consensual Incestuous Relationship, Comeplay, Dead Dove: Do Not Eat, Face-Sitting, Kinktober 2019, Multi, Nipple Torture, Size Kink, Threesome - F/M/M, Trans Male Character
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-10-27
Updated: 2019-10-27
Packaged: 2021-01-04 18:42:50
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con, Underage
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,488
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21202286
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Arianne/pseuds/Arianne, https://archiveofourown.org/users/patrexes/pseuds/patrexes
Summary: Alphinaud had thought he could handle this.





	eyes closed and clean

**Author's Note:**

> prompt: threesome
> 
> please be aware of the tags on this—while we usually write these characters with complicated but generally at least _arguable_ consent, this is unrepentant AU non-con for Horny Reasons.

As though he was not content to have Alphinaud simply weeping for the pain of taking his cock, Gaius van Bælsar forced a finger in his ass to win a scream.

“_Please_—” Alphinaud cried breathless in Garlean little-used of late; choked down _stop_. Begging would achieve nothing here, and like as not if the Legatus did not derive amusement—or even pleasure—from it then his Tribunus would. Mere fulms away, she watched rapt with tassets discarded and trousers pushed down her thighs, one hand in its gauntlet pinning the lips of her cunt open to force the claw-tips of the other inside. It was with eyes on her, expressionless mask more bearable a sight than the Legatus without his, that Alphinaud made himself adjure them both in Low Eorzean, stumbling despite his efforts: “There is—there is nothing to gain in imprisoning civilians. I, I, surely you aren’t committing war crimes for,” and he lost his words to the Legatus’ dry fingers prying him open to the point of tearing as his cunt already had, arching uselessly against the pain; found them again in the empty socket of the Tribunus’ helm and finished gasping, “for the _sake_ of it—!”

“Watch your tongue, boy, if you want to keep it.” The Tribunus’ voice was light with humor—but so too had it been before Noraxia’s murder.

The Legatus’ attention was fixed between Alphinaud’s legs, rapt by the ragged lips stretched to tearing around his cock. (“Such a tiny slit,” he had said aloud before he had forced himself inside, pinning Alphinaud’s legs to his chest and spreading his lips with rough fingers—as though it were some accomplishment that Alphinaud was proportionate, and tight enough his first—only—time in a man’s bed he’d still only been given fingers for fear of the pain.) Alphinaud breathed some small relief when he pulled out his fingers, marginally less pressure but still _less_, only to clasp both hands around Alphinaud’s thighs, easily encircling them. He pulled Alphinaud closer so the edge of the desk ground into his hips, and the following thrust turned Alphinaud’s stomach, too hard, too deep, the pressure past _bruising_—even knowing it was impossible he couldn’t shake the terror that with the next the Legatus would pierce his womb. 

At last the Legatus supplied her, “Fill his mouth yourself if the talk so bothers you,” the remark off-hand, practically unthinking.

“Truly?”

“It’s of no use to me.” And of course it wouldn’t be—for as full as Alphinaud felt, as impossibly large as the Legatus’ cock had looked even half-hard when he’d made a cup of his hand and told Alphinaud to spit—he could not have forced the girth past his teeth as he had the straining entrance to his cunt. Tearing _those_ lips would afford him no more space to fill.

The Tribunus took no more convincing to clamber onto the Legatus’ desk, kneeling half-dressed in armor atop loose papers the man hadn’t bothered to move before depositing Alphinaud bare on its surface—having clearly relished the fear in his eyes as he was carelessly stripped. Pulling off her helm revealed dark blonde hair cut chin length and worn loose, one eye gold and the other an empty socket, scars faded with age; Alphinaud averted his gaze. She tapped his cheek still wearing her armored gauntlets, leaving a sticky-wet residue on his skin from her fingers, and said, something like fond, “Now, know that if you bite I’ll only like it better.”

Alphinaud had never felt so small as he did when she settled above him. He had from the moment the Legatus laid hands on him been powerless, and the Tribunus’ size was a visceral reminder how little they need work to overpower him: her knees spread far wider than Alphinaud’s shoulders, wider than the Legatus had forced apart his own to first access his cunt. Her thighs were sticky with her slick, her cunt dripping wet from little more than watching the Legatus fuck him; Alphinaud hoped against hope that meant she was well on her way to finishing already, and pressed the tip of his tongue to her clit. He’d never done this before, and even having had it done to him had no real idea _how_ to—but even if he knew, what use might conventional experience be in pleasuring a woman who preferred to be bitten? He licked between her lips and tasted copper, cunt torn by her own fingers in her articulated gauntlets; where his nose pressed against her perineum, the close-shaven lips of her cunt gaping, he could feel stiff scar tissue against his skin.

The Tribunus rolled her hips against his mouth in jerking, rough motions which dragged his teeth against the hood of her clit. The quiet sounds she made—pleasure rather than frustration, Alphinaud hated to hope but did all the same—were softer without her helm to distort them, and her breath somehow as loud as the sound of the Legatus’ cuisses banging against the desk, as loud as Alphinaud’s own heart pounding in his ears. Past it all he could hardly hear the sobs he was choking on.

It was—he didn’t know how long it was, how long he spent beneath her with blood and slick mixing noxious in his mouth with the bile that rose from his belly as the Legatus made the raw wound of his cunt his Tribunus had so brightly suggested. Alphinaud laved helpless at her clit as she sought her pleasure of his mouth, laughing breathlessly at something the Legatus murmured in her ear, and he reached down between her legs to roughly tweak Alphinaud’s nipple between thumb and forefinger. Alphinaud shuddered, burying his moan in the Tribunus’ gaping cunt.

“I _thought_,” she said, no small hint of pride in her voice, “he’d still be flat.”

The Legatus’ fond laugh was followed by a metallic sound Alphinaud couldn’t have placed even had he been in full possession of his faculties nor otherwise engaged, and the hand groping him was joined by another, smaller but more roughly callused. Big fingers which ghosted over Alphinaud’s skin guided the smaller hand to cup his other breast. “Not—completely. I’d dare say they’ve just begun to grow.”

Even once the Legatus lifted his hands she kept playing with Alphinaud’s budding breasts with a glee that reminded him of Alisaie’s hands, her teeth; cunt spasming around the Legatus’ cock for the treatment, Alphinaud felt a pang of guilty loneliness. If only she were here beside him—

“About the same size these were,” the Legatus noted, “when I first got my hands on them.” Scant moments later, the Tribunus gasped, and for all Alphinaud’s best efforts to satisfy her—he refused on principle to bite her, but sucking on her clit had garnered no response, nor had raising his chin to tongue at loose walls he could not hope to fill, barely even able to lick up past her entrance—it was certainly something the Legatus had done which had her grinding against Alphinaud’s face with newfound intensity. With his breast still grasped in her gauntleted hand she jerked, the skin beneath her fingers splitting for the sudden force of it. Alphinaud hated the unconscious rock of his hips. He didn’t want this, he didn’t _want_ to want it, he hated the both of them for—for any of this being something he could elsewhere desire.

The Legatus, bastard that he was, would not leave well enough alone: with a curious sound in the back of his throat he reached between Alphinaud’s legs and rubbed circles over his clit, fingers slick with—something. The Tribunus’ spit, in all likelihood. And it…

It shouldn’t have felt good. It shouldn’t have been _able_ to, his cunt brutalized and so excruciatingly full, the pain so much that every snap of the Legatus’ hips gathered new tears in his eyes, dizzy and feeling sick with fear, with blood loss, with not enough air to breathe. But it _did_, it _was_, a single point of sensation he could take refuge in, something that could be _nice_ if he only didn’t think about it, let his sore, bleeding tits be Alisaie’s work, let the fingers working his clit be hers or Thancred’s or _anyone_ else’s.

No, he could not bear to think of them, to involve them in such an act when they remained outside the Legatus’ grasp—and so long as the Tribunus saw fit to use him she could not further endanger either those Scions as yet evading capture or those imprisoned not a malm away in this very castrum. He licked across the lips framing the gaping entrance to her cunt, thicker than his own, their softness interrupted by puckered scarring; lifting his head from the desk, burying himself in the taste of her, he managed to take her clit between his teeth, and bit down.

She shrieked, and then the Legatus’ voice came low and amused: “You like that, boy?” and he might have meant his Tribunus’ cunt—and he hated it, hated being trapped beneath her with everything overwhelming, unable even to taste _her_ for the blood—or his own fingers on Alphinaud’s clit, and _that_—he was disgusting, but he did, it felt _good_, and the Legatus _knew_ as much. Choking once more on a thick sob, so thick it devoured the scream in his throat, he kicked out at the man, scratched fruitlessly at the Tribunus’ still-armored shins.

She scoffed. “I didn’t take you near so poorly the first time.”

“Oh, did you now, fīliola?” asked the Legatus, voice full of warmth. “I seem to recall kissing the tears from your cheeks.” He took his hand off Alphinaud’s clit, and wherever it went after he didn’t care save for that it was not touching him, and he shouldn’t have felt grateful for that but he _was_, more than anything. “And at fourteen you were all but half again as large.”

“True,” the Tribunus—his _daughter_—allowed, and her bare hand she brought low, between the pitch of Alphinaud’s hips. The splay of her fingers was wide enough to curl around his sides, and the Legatus’ cock pressed up into her hand, bulging through his skin, too big too big too big— “He’s so small,” she marvelled. “So full and this little cunt can’t take even half your cock.” 

_Half_. Half, and Alphinaud felt like he’d break for taking it. _All_ of the Legatus’ cock—in his ass, it would have to be, his womb forbade his cunt be taken any deeper—and he knew for certain he _would_. The least bit of carelessness and he might die rent on that cock: and not once had the Black Wolf shown him anything like care.

The Tribunus’ hand slid too-gentle down his body, and warm as she was the touch of her bare skin left Alphinaud cold as she slipped her hand between his legs, wrapped those long fingers around what length of her father’s cock couldn’t fit inside his own cunt. The Legatus fucked him through her grasp, the side of her knuckle grinding hard against Alphinaud’s clit for the force of his thrusts. It was only pressure, the Tribunus entirely disinterested in Alphinaud’s body as anything but a receptacle for the Legatus to fill, but his earlier—earlier familiarity had left Alphinaud’s clit wet and sensitive and any touch felt far too much to bear, and so for each thrust he flinched.

The Legatus’ thrusts and breath both became unsteady, more jarring, and before long came—a warning? A promise? “I’m close.”

The Tribunus scoffed a laugh. “A serviceable cocksleeve, then? He’s worthless for ought else.” She rose to her knees, higher than Alphinaud could reach even craning his neck; he let his head thud onto the desk and watched as she slipped her armored fingers back into herself with alarming ease, her lips catching in the joints, rocking her hips down as if to wound herself on their points.

Alphinaud could see well the wreck of her cunt, her gaping lips and inner thighs more scar than skin, and how much use had she taken to look like that? Alphinaud shut his eyes, turned his head to lay his cheek against the tabletop, nothing expected of him any longer than to continue to be a warm and bleeding hole. The Tribunus twisted her hand between Alphinaud’s legs, working the Legatus’ cock; he made several haphazard thrusts, the last of which were little more than rolling hips, another jab against his bruised cervix, and then he was pulling out, the space he’d fucked into Alphinaud left empty save for—

Oh, _no_. Oh no oh no oh no he—he had—he—

Alphinaud was going to die here. They wouldn’t—they’d never chance his seed catching, were Alphinaud meant to survive this. Some anonymous soldier of the rank-and-file might get away with the rape of a civilian—certainly enough had—but the Legatus and his treasured Tribunus were far too high-profile to say nothing of Alphinaud himself: a prisoner of war known to them to be a citizen of a neutral state and the grandson of Eorzea’s late savior. And while once Gaius van Bælsar might have been untouchable, it was no secret the Black Wolf had well-lost the favor of his master.

A shudder ran down Alphinaud’s spine, rippling through muscles that no longer could tense. He felt _open_ like no fingers had ever wrought, as loose as the Tribunus—but what would have brought her to such a state than the Legatus’ cock, the very same? Being empty was its own vulnerability, the Legatus stepping back far enough he might feel the air on the wetness left in his cunt and across his thighs.

He did not remain empty for long; the Tribunus’ bare fingers were quick to replace her father’s cock, curling ruthless in his cunt to dig into the mess the Legatus left behind. She pumped her fingers in a mockery of sex, dragging her nails in the trail of gashes to split them ever further; the Legatus’ own fingers pinned his lips apart to afford her access, or perhaps to see the damage for himself. Alphinaud laid resigned, no longer able to hope this would end after the Legatus had his pleasure.

The Tribunus put two of her fingers together—still from the bare hand, and Alphinaud hated how close he felt to gratitude—and pressed down against the back of his cunt, where the pain of the Legatus’ cock had been searing.

“You ruined it. It had been so tight,” she said admiring, even cloying, withdrawing her fingers to—to _pet_ him, stroking his raw entrance without pushing inside. “And he’s still so little.”

The Legatus groaned, abandoned the cause of holding open the lips of Alphinaud’s cunt. Forcing himself to open his eyes—as much as he hated to look at the man, he wanted, _needed_ to know what next he would do, if he planned to put his fingers wet with his come and Alphinaud’s own blood down his throat, or to curl them around it and take his breath. The Legatus loomed, broad and tall with his armor only accentuating the raw power of his body, and though indeed he brought both hands up over Alphinaud, neither death nor any new form of degradation followed. He made only to pinch Alphinaud’s breasts, so recently begun to grow, smearing blood and spend across his skin, palming him roughly enough to grind the sore, firm tissue against washboard ribs. Alphinaud found he had it in him no longer to so much as flinch from the touch: told himself it was rebellion rather than defeat, for if the Legatus meant to play games before the inevitable, Alphinaud had no obligation to humor him.

As mild as an inquiry after the forecast, the Tribunus asked, “Do you think you’re his first?”

“No doubt his first cock. And last, unless he’s more resilient than he seems.” He spoke with no more import than the Tribunus, and Alphinaud recoiled beneath their hands. With their intentions made so clear, if Alphinaud had any hope of leaving this room still breathing he would have to play the entirety of his hand—even then, it was no sure case. Diplomacy had failed his father more than once with all his years of experience and earned respect, and _that_ within the Forum, composed entirely of men of reason; Alphinaud had to his name neither experience nor the respect of his adversaries, and it had been made clear the XIVth was a far cry from judicious. Having already committed the crime, it was entirely possible there was nothing at all Alphinaud could do or say to sway them from their course in—destroying the evidence.

Without acknowledging his threat the Legatus leaned forward; above Alphinaud he brought his hand between the Tribunus’ legs. As rough with her as he had been with Alphinaud, he wrenched her fingers free of her cunt, wet with her, bright red against glazed white metal unblemished save for blood collected in the seams too dry to be her own. Three of his fingers slipped easily into the gape of her cunt, more room still left inside her where _one_ for Alphinaud had been—unbearable, so deep Alphinaud could never hope to be free of the ghost of his claim, so full the only respite was in tearing further.

But the Tribunus took them without pain—or at least without _enough_ pain to dissuade her. How much would be, he didn’t know: the walls of her cunt must have been torn on her gauntlets near as badly as Alphinaud had on the Legatus’ cock, and her slender fingers bare inside him after that had been nothing less than torture, pain dull and sharp in equal measure and inescapable in thought as much as body. 

With the flat of his palm curling to cradle her pelvis, the Legatus wound his other arm about his daughter and lifted her from the desk without effort to catch her lips. The Tribunus was quick to wrap her legs around his waist once he had her in his arms, her elbows resting upon his shoulders as she moaned wanton into his mouth. From below them—though now at least with some separation, the couple seemingly forgotten his presence entirely—Alphinaud could see the Legatus’ bloodied fingers’ steady thrusts into her cunt, the way that once she’d clung onto him he could slip his other hand from under her armpit to rest between her shoulder blades. The Tribunus was so much bigger than Alphinaud, so much studier, and yet in the Legatus’ arms—a man only a few ilms taller than she—she looked slender to the point of fragility. 

The Legatus held her close as they kissed, messy and violent, her teeth tearing into his lower lip as the hand between her legs caught the more scarred of hers with pinching fingers and pulled at them until her hips hitched up, exacerbating the stretch (and with it, the pain). On the Legatus’ cheek, on his Tribunus’ chin were smears of blood and spend, the former drying dark and flaking, the latter pearlescent and nearly clear as it, too, began to dry. And if it were on her face… Oh. She must have licked the mess off her fingers. 

The Legatus needed pry her off him when he set her down atop his desk beside Alphinaud, the two of them scant ilms apart. “_Tata_,” she whined, put-upon. Still she reached for him, tangling her fingers in the Legatus’ hair to drag him back and steal another kiss.

“Hush, girl,” he said, his voice soft even as he wrenched her wrists away from him, pinned her hands to the tabletop; knelt down between her thighs. 

By no means did she hush, but rather screamed for him unimpeded, shameless in her pleasure as the Legatus finished what Alphinaud had failed to—proof positive that should Alphinaud scream, whether from cowardice or simply instinct, it would raise no suspicion. She was in tears by the time the Legatus sat back on his heels.

Gathering his resolve—like as not this would be his best chance, even his _only_ chance to truly fight for his life—Alphinaud pushed himself upright, feeling ill and faint for the change of position, too much blood lost and feeling only barely tethered to his own body. The Legatus glanced over at him; Alphinaud brushed his hair out of his eyes with shaking hands and forced himself to meet the Legatus’ own, pale gold eerie set amid otherwise dark features.

The Legatus studied him, gaze hard and inscrutable, their eyes level with him still kneeling. Without breaking eye contact, he said low to his Tribunus, “Have a medicus sent in on your way out.”

**Author's Note:**

> this should have been 1.5k max


End file.
